Only Love and Music
by LadyBastet92
Summary: Eight years after the night under the Paris Opera House, Christine visits the grave of her Angel of Music. One-shot. Musicalverse.


(A/N: Yup, a Phantom one-shot. Crazy, no? I never thought I'd attempt _that. _But for some reason, I had this idea in my head, and it wouldn't come out unless I typed it out. So…voila! I hope I didn't screw up badly. Just a note: this is following the musical, with a few elements from other Phantom sources, and in the musical, it is never mentioned that the Phantom's name is Erik. So I followed that plotline as if Christine didn't know his real name.)

(Enjoy, and please review.)

Eight years. Eight years had passed since that night under the Paris Opera House. Even after eight years, she couldn't forget.

Everything _seemed_ to be going well enough in her life. The Phantom hadn't reemerged from the day Christine was married to her beloved, Raoul. She half expected the ceremony to be interrupted, but it proceeded smoothly, without a hitch. But even on the day her happiness had reached its limit, _he_ still lingered in the back of her mind. And she couldn't help but wonder if he was watching.

Years passed. Christine had soon become a famous opera star in her own right, and she couldn't deny that the publicity of all that occurred at the Opera House helped her achieve her fame. She starred in several shows-but she never got a new voice teacher. For some reason, a part of her wouldn't let her stray from her first one; even though she knew she had lost her Angel of Music forever. Yet why were the chains from the past evermore so securely fastened, no matter how hard she tried to break them?

She never returned to the Opera House Populaire. She had gotten many invitations, and many requests, but she had turned them all down. No one understood why, and Christine never bothered to explain. Mistaking her resistance for fear, her old friend Meg Giry reassured her that the Phantom was long gone from his musical lair, and most likely dead-Meg even offered to show her the mask she discovered to prove it. Christine did her best to hide her horrification at the prospect of her Angel of Music being dead, and still she refused to return. If it was not fear of a Phantom, then what was the reason?

Both Christine and Raoul had kept the promise the Phantom enticed them to keep-to tell no one of their adventures in the depths of the Opera House Populaire. The couple did so, keeping their experience quiet to the media, and even between themselves. Christine and Raoul never talked of the happenings in the Opera house, and even though Raoul offered the topic for conversation a few times, Christine always avoided it, and the matter was soon dropped. Raoul never pressed her, only reminded her kindly that he was there to comfort her and that she could talk to him whenever she wished; an offer she sometimes thought to accept. But she never did. So instead, they both looked towards their future, as they seemed to forget about the Fantome de l'Opera Populaire.

But she never forgot. He continued to haunt her, everywhere she went. It was different then the time she spent in fear of him at the Opera House. She did not expect him to return to her, to capture her, to steal her away to his lair. Then why did she always see his face? It wasn't the unworldly face of a Phantom, or the disfigured face of a monster she saw. It was the face of a man. A broken man, with tears in his eyes, his face crumbled in desperation. It was the face of a man she left behind to linger in darkness forever.

Would he even recognize her if he saw her today? No longer the naïve, quiet girl she once was, in eight years Christine had become a woman. She was still beautiful; at the age of 24, time had made her blossom. Even after the birth of a child, she was able to maintain the grace and poise of a dancer, and her voice only ever received praise. She had grown stronger, and more eager and able to face the world as the years flew by. If he had seen her, if he had learned to know her as the strong willed woman rather then the easily influenced girl…would he still love her?

For a woman who tried so hard to keep the ghosts of the past locked away, it was strange that Christine still searched for him. She hadn't made a goal of it, to find him again; she had many other things that kept her busy and content in her life. But she couldn't help searching the paper every morning for any hints of a masked musician. Why she searched, she herself couldn't say. It truly was foolish; didn't know what she would say to him, if they did meet each other again. Maybe it was just the lingering hope that the Angel of Music was also content with his life. Or just confirmation that he existed at all.

Years went by without any news. Christine hardly expected the former Phantom to advertise his existence (most people believed him to be dead, and many convinced themselves that he never existed at all), but she always looked for a sign she might recognize. As her efforts failed, her hopes and attempts began to wan, and the events of the past seemed more and more like a passed dream.

Until the day Raoul brought home a newspaper from work. Raoul had traveled to many counties because of his business in the diamond industry, and his most recent travels had been to America. It was opened to the obituaries page, and highlighted was the name of a man: Erik Geome. In any other case, this wouldn't have been significant to her; how was she to know if this man was her former Angel? Except it mentioned in the article that Erik was physically distinguishable by "his badly deformed face and his often worn white mask."

"I have to go."

She was slightly taken aback when Raoul slowly nodded his head. She had honestly expected much more resistance. When asked why he agreed, he simply said:

"I wouldn't have shown it to you if I didn't expect you to go."

Tears of gratitude filled her eyes, as she embraced her husband and kissed him, and they started making arrangements for her trip to America. Christine would be traveling alone, as Raoul stayed behind to care for their child and his business. She wasn't surprised; she hadn't expected him to come. Although she wondered why Raoul had let her go so easily. Did he simply see no threat now that his former rival was dead? Or had his grudge grown softer over time, as he learned to pity the man he once hated; for time had certainly provided the latter for Christine, at least.

Time passed, and soon Christine found herself in a carriage on its way to a graveyard in the foreign land. For any other person, to travel from France to America to simply visit a grave would've seemed foolish, but Christine knew she had to come. Somehow or another, she would say good-bye to her Angel and lay her inner-demons to rest. Even so close to the moment of arrival, Christine didn't know how she would feel when she finally reached his grave. Would she feel sadness, guilt? Perhaps even-_God forgive_-relief?

In the meantime, she put aside these questions, to find answers for even more unfathomable ones. What had the Phantom been doing in America for so many years? He must have been of some importance, or at least a noticeable man, or his name wouldn't have been listed in the obituaries. The papers only recalled his name and the note about his face, but nothing more. What about his profession, his home? Christine sighed. These were questions she'd always wonder, but never know. The life of the Phantom of the Opera must always remain a mystery to her.

The carriage suddenly made a rocky jolt, as they arrived at the gate of the graveyard. She stepped outside to face the icy New England weather. Snow has doused everything in white, and the wind wisped strands of her long, curly brown hair in front of her eyes, as she observed her surroundings. This graveyard had none of the intimidating grandness of the graveyard her father laid at; instead of looming statues and decorated memorials, only a simple slab marked the corpse of a loved one. The grounds were chillingly empty, as Christine made her way through the graveyard alone. She had seen one too many graveyards in her lifetime.

After a few minutes of searching, she found it. It was nothing extravagant or beautiful; only the name Erik Geome and his birth and death date were marked on the gray stone. Christine's heart clenched. He deserved more. Slowly, Christine knelt down by the tombstone, and placed upon it a crimson-red rose. The flowers' beauty contrasted the white, gloomy surroundings of the graveyard, but its power was not enough to raise her heart out of the cold of winter.

Christine offered a weak smile to the lifeless stone. She began to whisper into the deafening winds, to the spirit of the dead, as she had done so many times with her father. "You always use to place roses in my dressing room after a performance at the Opera House. Do you remember? I used to be so delighted at the prospect of pleasing you, yet I didn't even know you. I'm afraid I still don't. And...now I never will."

Christine tried to control her voice, and she felt it choke with emotion. But she couldn't cry now. She wasn't done yet.

For the first time, she had to ask herself if her Angel could hear her at all. She knew to any outsider, the Phantom seemed to be an insane, cold-blooded murderer. He had sinned, to be sure. But maybe he repented. Maybe he changed his ways…Christine hardly expected him to be a Godly man, and for what seemed to be good reason. Anyone else probably would have given up faith if they were in his position. But still, she silently prayed that God would have mercy on him. His life had been hell on earth. She didn't want his afterlife to be any worse then his first. _He doesn't deserve that_.

Christine slowly traced her fingers over the chiseled letters indented into the cold slab. _Erik. _"Why did you never tell me your name, Erik? Did you always have it, or did you create it with you new life?" Christine could feel her eyes begin to water. "I haven't forgotten you, Angel. I know you told me to forget. But how can you expect me to, Erik? You took my childhood, and forced it to mold into womanhood. For the first time, I had to make a decision that would affect my life, and the life of others. Do you hate me for what I did? Did you change at all; did you see a different view of the world? Did it even make a difference? Do you forgive me? Oh, Angel, do you forgive me?"

At last, Christine let grief overcome her. Wet, round tears rolled down her cheeks, as she sobbed in the wintry abyss. It wasn't fair. She was supposed to _hate _him. He tricked her, captured her, and almost separated her from her love forever. Then why did she mourn him so?

But in her heart of hearts, she knew. She knew why she searched for him. She knew why she bothered to come all this way to visit his grave. She knew why she always saw his face, wherever she went.

She loved him. Not in the way she loved Raoul…no. That was a different sort of love completely. But she had always loved her Angel of Music. How could she hate the man who taught her how to truly sing? Even after she discovered the other part of him…the ugly, tormented part…she still somehow had room in her heart for him. It was beyond pity, or empathy. It compassion for an Angel she once gave her heart to, and love for a man she could have learned to know.

Regaining her composer, Christine wiped away her tears, and got to her feet. The sadness was overbearing. She couldn't stand to stay any longer. Collecting her skirts without another word, Christine turned to walk away from the grave, and gasped in surprise as she almost ran into two figures standing nearby. She must not have heard their approach in her own misery. Forgetting herself, Christine examined these two figures. It was a woman with pitch black hair and hazel eyes, and a child with similar features. Both of them had very sodden expressions on their faces, as they remained as still as stone.

Blushing miserably in embarrassment, Christine realized that she had been staring for too long. She gave a quick bow of apology, and quickly hurried off. But as Christine made her way through the tombstones, their faces were still in her mind. Especially the boy's. He must have been no more then six years old, yet his face held no joys of childhood. And there was something about his eyes. Something in their shape, their expression, that was almost familiar.

_They were Erik's eyes._

"Wait!" Christine cried out, as she ran through the snow up to Erik's grave. But both of them were gone. Like ghosts in the wind, even the falling snow covered up their tracks as if they had never been there. She stood still, staring at the solitary rose. That woman…and the boy…it had to be…

_Oh Erik…had you found love at last?_

Christine closed her eyes. She pretended she was a girl again, entering the Paris Opera House for the first time. She was still shaken by her father's death, and she had forgotten how to sing with joy. She believed there was nothing left for her, now that her father was gone. But then, a voice. A soothing voice, a heavenly voice, reassuring her, comforting her. He told her he was her Angel of Music. And he told her to listen. Full of childlike awe, Christine believed him.

_Listen. _

She could hear him. The voice from so long ago. The voice that enchanted her with his music. Strong and moving, she could feel it begin to rise. From the coldness of winter, a warmth was being born. Above her, all around her-inside her. It was there. The music of a man, a Phantom, and an Angel. And in the background, a violin playing a familiar melody. Together yet apart, the notes drifted and swirled in her head, and she felt her heart being lifted from the shadows, as she longed to be carried away by its magic.

Christine opened her eyes, and the spell was broken. But the music was very much real to her. Was it just a memory, a revisiting of a past time? Or had it been something else? Looking towards the sky for something that could have been left behind, Christine felt as if something in her heart had been lifted that she had been carrying around for eight years. Though the winds whipped just as harshly as they did before, somehow, it didn't feel as cold.

Music doesn't die. Even after the song is finished, the notes linger in the air. It passes from person to person, mind to mind, until it has reached the soul of every person who cares to listen. It has been written by man, yet it couldn't be defined by mortal standards. Even when the last note is played, the song is never done. Although the player eventually dies, the music will last forever.

_Only love and music are eternal._

Erik may be gone. But the Angel of Music lives on, guiding Christine every day of her life-just as he always did. By giving Christine his music, and by giving him her love, the Phantom of the Opera would live on for all eternity.

Christine once again got on her knees. Slowly, she pressed her lips to the cold stone. And she finally said goodbye.

_Rest in peace, my Angel of Music._


End file.
